


A Stranger (Son) Named Edward

by Othalla



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: Attempt at Humor, Gen, Immortality has consequences, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-28
Updated: 2019-01-28
Packaged: 2019-10-18 11:49:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,576
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17580266
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Othalla/pseuds/Othalla
Summary: In which Hohenheim gains a son.





	A Stranger (Son) Named Edward

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Brachylagus_fandom](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Brachylagus_fandom/gifts).



> I messed with the timeline a lil for funzies.

For all that Hohenheim has been away for over a year at this point, Rizembool hasn’t changed in the slightest. The houses in the village stand where they’ve stood for generations, painted the same colour they were last year, and the year before that, and the people are no different. Perhaps beautiful in their steadfastness, but stagnant nonetheless. The roof over the butchery is still much too concave to be safe, worn down from time and termites, and one day or another it will collapse on top of the butcher himself.

But that is neither here nor there, and most definitely not Hohenheim’s problem, so he lets his eyes pass over the village as he walks through it, not looking very carefully. Some people shout out in greeting and he raises his hand to them in turn, smiling blandly before moving on. God knows Pinako would hit him over the head with a wrench if he didn’t, and he’s not too keen on that.

For all that she’s getting on in the years and only reaches his waist, she’s made out of wiry muscles and unbending force of will. Absolutely terrifying, in other words. In fact, he’s pretty certain if she’d been an alchemist Father would be long since eradicated from the face of the planet. Probably in a rather brutally efficient sort of way, too. Hohenheim would pay quite the sum to see it.

Eventually houses give way to fields swaying hay, and the road grows smaller until it’s more a path than anything else. And then, over one last hill and past an aging apple tree, he sees his house. His home, he supposes, for all that he lives out of his suitcase and what he can make with his hands. If nothing else, it’s where his family is. It's where his books are.

He needs to double check what he’s learned during his travels with his journals. He’s not quite sure where he put them, though. Oh well.

He walks up to the house, puts down his suitcase, and knocks on the doorframe even as he opens the door. “I’m home,” he says into the empty hallway that greets him. No one responds, but he can hear Trisha talking in the kitchen and can definitely smell something that she’s making something edible.

He toes off his shoes and puts the to the side on the shoe rack, hangs up his coat, and then on soft feet he approaches the kitchen.

Just as he’d thought, Trisha stands with a bowl and whisk in hand, smiling at the kitchen table. The oven is on, bread of some sort rising slowly inside it, basked in the red light of the inside lamps. He's arrived just in time for dinner.

Ed and Al are standing on one chair each, leaning over the table, clearly preoccupied by the papers they’re drawing on. At a glance, Hohenheim can tell their circles are smoother, the lines clearer, and the harsh lines intersecting them are more symmetrical than they were last time he saw them try their hand at alchemy. They’re far from good, obviously. Their circles are overly complex, piling information and stacking the instructions very inefficiently. The paper will still fold into the shape they’re aiming for, but it’ll be slow, and the paper will be damaged in the process of the folding. Which won’t do, Hohenheim can’t have them develop bad habits this early into their development. It’ll prove detrimental to their growth.

He’s just opened his mouth to comment on it when a stranger moves into his line of sight, pointing at the papers his sons are drawing on.

“Hey kid, look here,” the stranger says, and points at one of the unnecessary lines. “What’s this one doing?”

“It’s a fold point,” Ed answers readily, even as he’s focused on finishing the outer layer of the circle. “The paper will fold over there.”

The stranger moves his finger to another line. “And this one?”

Ed blinks, and startles slightly. Then he frowns as he looks where the stranger is pointing. “It’s another fold point.” He pauses, considering the circle deeply. His eyes go wide. “Oh! They’ll interrupt each other. It’ll be faster with just one instead of two!”

Ed grins, pleased with his realisation, and pulls out another paper to start over.

The stranger reaches out with a hand and ruffles his hair. “Precisely,” he says, and then he looks up and meets Hohenheim’s eyes, and Hohenheim finds himself unable to do anything to stare back.

The stranger’s eyes are golden. As is his hair, Hohenheim is surprised to see as the light streaming in from the window reflects on the long braid slung over the stranger’s shoulder. He looks barely into his twenties.

It’s a little bit like looking through a mirror, only many centuries ago when he wasn’t allowed to own one.

He must have made some sort of noise, because Ed and Al both turn their heads toward him before shooting up with matching shouts.

“Dad! You’re home!” Ed throws himself at Hohenheim and Hohenheim catches him distractedly, pulling him up to hold him against his chest. He pats Al on the head as he too comes up. God, they’ve grown so much.

“I’m home,” he says, voice weak.

His eyes move back to the stranger. The stranger who’s all but practically glaring at him. Huh.

“Welcome home, dear,” Trisha says and kisses him on the cheek “We’ve missed you.”

“I’ve missed you too,” Hohenheim replies distractedly, still focused on the stranger. The too familiar stranger who looks very comfortable in Hohenheim’s kitchen. “Who’s this?” he asks finally, gesturing at the stranger, unable to hold the question back any longer.

Trisha smiles widely in reply. “This is your son,” she says. Which doesn’t make any sort of sense as she’s not pointing to the son he’s carrying. “He arrived just after you left.”

“I see,” Hohenheim says slowly, not really seeing at all.

“Hi, _dad_ ,” the stranger – his son? Trisha did call him that – says with a sneer. Hohenheim feels a little bit like he’s stumbled into an alternate reality. He doesn’t- What? 

Outwardly Hohenheim lets none of his inner turmoil show, he merely blinks. “Dad?” he says in question, looking between Trisha and the stranger who called him dad. Certainly the young man looks like it.

“Oh, yes,” Trisha answers. “Your son.” She frowns disappointedly at Hohenheim. “He did say you probably wouldn’t remember him, but I didn’t want to believe him. Seems he was right.”

Considering how long he’s lived, Hohenheim usually feels pretty certain announcing there is little left that can surprise him. The novelty of the world does tend to fade with the years, as things repeat indefinitely and events are revisited. Still, he has to admit he’s definitely something. It’s not often one comes home to find his wife presenting him with another child that’s well past his toddler years.

Somehow he'd expected to be aware if he had a third child out there roaming the world.

“It’s not surprising that you didn’t know,” the young man says with a glare. “Considering you walked out on my mom and never returned like the greatest asshole in existence.”

Oh. Well. That would explain it.

“I’m sorry?” he says hedgingly, trying to recall whatever women he’d happen to have intercourse with before meeting Trisha. What with living as long as he has, it isn’t only the surprises that grow fewer, clearer memories are also something of a downwards arching trend. Being baseline human does have its drawbacks. He remembers most of everything that passed during his first century, but after that things grow a bit murky. Just one of the reasons for why it's so adamant he keeps his journals up to date. It’s certainly possible he’s forgotten a few women he’s been intimate with in the process of his aging.

Still, he's a bit miffed he wasn't informed of any accidental pregnancy.

“Yeah, right,” the young man scoffs disbelievingly and crosses his arms in front of his chest.

Hohenheim throws a pleading look Trisha’s way but she’s decidedly whisking her batter and ignores him completely, leaving him to deal with his newfound _son_ on his own.

Hohenheim swallows. “What’s your name, son?”

Somehow that sets the young man off even more. “Edward,” he almost spits out. 

Hohenheim blinks. “Edward,” he repeats, not quite believing it. The chances of that… are quite small.

“Yes, _Edward_. So you should be able to remember it, considering I hear you have another _son_ called the same thing, even if you are a deadbeat demented asshole of a father with no care for family.”

Hohenheim blinks, not really sure what to do with that statement. Neither do Ed (the, uh, younger) and Al it seems, from how their eyes flicker worriedly between the adults in the room.

Edward (the older) closes his eyes and breathes in deeply. "Anyway," he says finally, "we can hash that out later. First thing first we need to do something about your creepy clone, because to be honest with you I've had just about enough with  _fathers_ to last me a lifetime."

Hohenheim considers whether or not he should be offended and decides it would probably be easiest not to. Somehow, he can't help but think he'll have enough things to deal with as it is, what with the rest of what (his  _son_ ) just said.

"So, who wants pancakes?"


End file.
